Caught White Handed
by Jazzola
Summary: An intrepid plan, Alex feels closer to Gene than to the real world, and Mac's breathing down their necks. Something might just go wrong. Plenty of Galex.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: After watching Tu£sday, starring Phil Glenister as a man in a red bandana, Kevin R. McNally (Harry Woolf from LOM) as yet another copper of dubious morals and John Simm as a man with a lollipop, I started to like the idea of Gene breaking the law (but only for a good cause!). Then this clicked and, after risking my life to get the computer (that actually is nearly not a joke ^^), I decided to write it. And here is the end result, fuelled by extra-chocolatey birthday cake and chicken nuggets. Enjoy, review, and… um… actually, I can't think of anything else. Well, I suppose you can favourite and alert if you want. ;) Jazzola

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><p>"Vault 192. That's what we need ter get into."<p>

"And where exactly did you get that information from?"

"Mac can't miss what 'e throws in 'is bin. I went in ter 'ave a little rifle around."

It was almost pitch black in the small glass office within Fenchurch East CID, only the occasional bead of light from a cigarette or lighter and the tiger-striped glow from the street lighting outside keeping the void at bay. Two people lay parallel on mattresses arranged haphazardly on the floor, blankets draped over two bodies, cushions helping to prop the pair up as they faced each other in the gloom, unconsciously mirroring each other's body language.

Alex Drake broke the silence that fell as Gene Hunt lit a cigarette, idly stroking the cushion under her elbow in thought, knowing without looking that his eyes would be focusing on her lips as she spoke.

"Well, Vault 192's a start. Do you know what he's got in there?"

"I suppose prob'ly somethin' damnin', if 'e scribbled it out with marker pen."

Gene sniffed, retrieving the paper from the edge of his desk and looking it over again. Alex looked confused.

"Marker pen? So how do you know it's Vault 192?"

"Sam Tyler. One of 'is mates in Manchester 'ad some liquid that could dissolve marker pen. I brought a little with me. Thought it might come in 'andy."

Alex took the paper from him, turning it over in her fingers, reaching out for the two tumblers of whisky sitting patiently between their pillows. Her fingers found Gene's, also picking his glass up; he whipped his fingers away, almost spilling the whisky over his hand and the carpet in his haste. Alex rolled her eyes.

"Gene, you brushed my fingers by accident. No need to act like a startled virgin."

Gene opened and shut his mouth, eventually lapsing into a dignified silence; Alex giggled, enjoying the slightly surprised, slightly surly look he always had whenever she said something crude or unexpected.

"So?" she asked as his tumbler emptied, watching in mute fascination at his top lip stroking the rim of the glass, the imprint from his mouth left on the smooth sheen. Gene raised his eyebrows at her, setting the tumbler down, an amused smile flitting across his face for the bare minimum of a second before her eyes flicked back to his.

"So what?"

"So, now we know that Mac's hiding something in Talbot Street. And what are we going to do about it? He'll have some way of knowing if we get things out of there. He's a powerful man, Gene, he wouldn't hesitate to hurt you or even kill you if he knew we were onto him."

They both paused, mental images of Dawid Czarnecki burning simultaneously in their memories. Alex shivered.

"Then we 'ave ter keep it under wraps. Do somethin' so out of character 'e'll never fer a second think it could be us."

Gene lapsed into thought, his chin resting on his elbow; Alex sat watching him, half-daydreaming with her eyes on the blanket over his stomach, tracking the slow rise and fall of his chest, wondering at exactly how painful the notion of losing him really was. He was her one constant in this world, her eight-year-old self's saviour. Protectiveness threatened to overwhelm her for a second; she found herself reaching out to him, resting her hand on his warm, scarred arm, lying on top of the blanket. Gene jumped.

"Bolly?"

Her gaze softened so slightly he could barely see it; the amber glow from the half-closed blinds caressed her face, as though it was stripped down to the bare emotions, solely for him. He tried and failed not to stare.

"Gene, no matter how much we want to bring Mac down, please, _please _don't put yourself in too much danger with some hare-brained scheme. You're the only person who can show Mac for what he really is, and… and if something happened to you, I- I don't know how CID would cope."

_Or me. _But she couldn't say that. To say that would make it too real, this emotion she'd been battling for months now. She couldn't- shouldn't- had to resist- showing him her emotions too much. He'd only use them to stab her in the back.

OK, so she knew he wouldn't do that. But it didn't hurt to be wary.

"I can't promise I won't put myself in danger, Bolly," Gene said quietly, studying his blanket rather than his DI. "I do that every day. People do that just by bein' alive. If a criminal doesn't get yer, or yer not shot by a bent copper, it'll be fire, or food poisonin', or cancer."

"Aren't you a cheerful bastard to be around," Alex sighed, taking a gulp of whisky to hide her paled face. Gene talking about death- and specifically being shot- brought her own reality home far too starkly. He lifted his head, watching her for a long moment before speaking again.

"It's just life. We're dyin' from the moment we're born. That's not bein' morbid, that's just the truth. No escapin' it. Besides, death's the easy bit. 'S what 'appens afterwards that gets people's backs up. But I digress. My point is, if one thing doesn't kill yer, somethin' else will. Yer 'ave ter take the bull by the 'orns, an' try ter camel-toe around the big rats while yer find out just 'ow far the rot goes."

"Gene Hunt, founder of Metaphors United."

"Price o' membership, one stamped arse."

"In your dreams."

"Frequently."

Alex opened her mouth, trying to summon up a rebuke, and abruptly found her desire to argue gone.

"So. What do you plan to do about Vault 192?"

Gene lay back, closing his eyes, a faint smile flickering over his face in the dim light.

"Exactly what the doctor said ter me when 'e took my appendix out. "We pop in, whip it out, an' skedaddle before yer realise it.""

"You're going to rob Talbot Street?"

"That would've taken Poirot an hour."

He took the paper off her silently, rolling it in his fingers before throwing it neatly into an empty plant pot by the window, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders. Alex rolled her eyes.

"Please tell me you're not serious."

"What else are we goin' ter do? If we apply fer a warrant, someone'll tell Mac. If we ask 'im about it, it'll be suicide. If we send a member of my team, Mac'll 'ear. There's no escape. We slip in through the back, open it, nick everythin' that's inside, an' run. Simple as."

His eyes slid back open again, focusing on hers in the gloom. Alex sighed.

"Gene Hunt, you are the stupidest, most arrogant, reckless, downright difficult, stubborn, _incredible _person I've ever met."

"Eh?"

"You're putting a lot more than just your career at stake when you start rifling through Mac's files, Gene," Alex said gently, putting her hand on the blanket over his shoulder, choosing to ignore him stiffening beneath her fingers. _Reflex. _"He could so easily kill you. Kevin Hales found that out."

"I'm more experienced than 'im. I've met enough blaggers ter know what ter do. Shouldn' be that 'ard ter pretend I'm after money or somethin'."

"I await your incredible acting eagerly."

"Don't knock it. I was a Wise Man in the Nativity once."

"Such a boost to my confidence."

"Even got a clap all to myself. That's the mark of someone 'oo's missed their callin'."

"What was the clap for?"

"Throwin' a bucket o' water over Joseph. An' then bein' chased twice round the church an' just managin' ter take a bow before the bastard rugby-tackled me. Best Nativity the school ever staged."

Alex hid her mouth to stop herself laughing, rolling her eyes.

"You be careful. And I'll be outside, waiting as a getaway driver."

"No, Bolls. I'm doin' this on my own. I'm not puttin' you in danger too."

"We're always in danger. If it's not a criminal, it's a bent copper…"

"Not the time fer bein' a parrot, Bolly. This is serious. Mac's in deep, 'e won't 'esitate ter dispatch o' those 'oo piss 'im off. I can worm my way out of a robbery, especially if I 'ave my team on side. You, on the other 'and, would 'ave a considerably more difficult time."

"What, because I'm a woman?"

"Because Mac 'as it in fer you. I'm not quite as vulnerable as you."

Alex sighed.

"So what am I supposed to do, while you're robbing Talbot Street?"

"You do what you do best. Cover my back. Tell me if Mac catches wind of what I'm doin'. Keep a look out fer 'im leavin' the station, an' tell me which direction, tail 'im if possible. But don't be seen."

He stifled a yawn, closing his eyes once again.

"Now shush. I need rest if I'm goin' ter summon my inner blagger. Bugger that, I need rest."

"OK."

Despite her own fatigue, Alex stayed propped up on her elbow, watching Gene as sleep claimed her exhausted DCI, the frown vanishing from his face to be replaced with blissful blankness, the Manc Lion mask gone.

Her mind began to drift as she too let gravity pull her down, her eyes absently studying the ceiling. As always, Molly was the first thing she thought about, leaping up to catch her mother's kiss; it brought a smile to her face, even though the edges of the memory were hazy, almost dreamlike. As though it was the real world that wasn't real.

She'd never thought of that. Maybe she was in the real world, here in 1982? But that was ridiculous. She'd been shot. This was just a dream conjured up by her injured brain while she lay in a coma, trapped in her and Sam's joint imagination. This vivid world they'd managed to create between them, beautiful, horrible, and so bloody _detailed._

The detail. Everywhere.

Her fingers brushed the pillow again, finding loose threads, a stitch here and there, a scribble of 'HUNT' on the label. Her feet were slightly cold, the blanket Gene had draped over her marginally thinner at the bottom end. The corner of one of the posters on the wall was torn; there was a damp stain next to it, just behind a slightly dented darts trophy with a name printed in wonky letters on the pedestal. As her gaze shifted, it found Gene once again, lying peacefully on his side, face snug into the pillow; his hair was set ablaze by the amber light, one hand draped carelessly on the floor, the other resting almost demurely on his stomach. She leaned over to pick it up, making to ease it back under the blanket, and caught sight of the edge of a scar under his ridden-up top, paled with age, a thin line just over where his appendix would have been.

_Why would I bother making up that kind of detail? What's it to me if Gene had an appendectomy years ago?It's pointless detail. It won't influence anything happening now. So is my mind going into overdrive, is it all somehow relevant in some way I haven't yet figured out… or is it real? I just don't know!_

Gene rolled over, a guttural grunt disturbing her thoughts as he re-positioned himself, knocking her half-empty tumbler of whisky over as he did so. Alex rolled her eyes, using his discarded shirt to dab at the golden stain spreading over the white square. _The stubborn bastard couldn't have got it on the black, where it wouldn't show._

He rolled back, his arm finding hers; Alex gently eased it back onto the bed, unable to stop herself giving his warm, rough skin a little stroke as she did so. He looked so blissful, so innocent, so unlike her Guv it gave her a strange feeling, deep in her gut's gut. One she really didn't want to dwell on for two long. _That way lies madness, Alex._

"Mam?" Gene mumbled, his fingers twitching at the feel of Alex's skin against his. Alex smiled softly, shaking her head despite knowing he couldn't see.

"No, Gene. Go to sleep. It's late."

"Stu back yet?"

Alex pursed her lips, trying not to smile. She knew she shouldn't, but Gene was half asleep and she was curious; what harm could it do?

"No. Not yet," she said softly, inwardly cringing at the tenderness in her voice as she eased the blanket up over his cooling skin, slipped his hand back to lie parallel with his torso. "He'll be back soon."

"Is my arm 'ealed yet?"

_His arm? Would that have been his father?_

"Erm, yes, Gene. Go back to sleep now. You're tired, big day tomorrow."

To her mingled relief and disappointment, Gene nodded into the pillow, turned onto his back and began to snore, completely out for the count. She made to tuck him in and stalled, her hand inches from his chest. Far too caring. He was her DCI. A good… friend, but nothing more. And he would never be. She'd rather shag Tony Blair.

_OK, that's a lie. Just keep a lid on it, Alex, and concentrate on Mac. Who knows, maybe it'll get you back to 2008._

She shivered. In this warm, real office, with Gene lying less than a metre away from her, completely healthy and minus a bullet in the brain, 2008 suddenly seemed a very cold, scary place.

* * *

><p>Talbot Street looked somewhat foreboding in the dusk light, its small windows and lack of lighting reminiscent of the run-down hideouts in films where the bad guys always scheme. The only speck of colour was the bright red car parked opposite it, and the glow of amber from the cigarette hanging from the driver's lips, crackling into life as the mouth contracted slightly, sucking deeply, the throat beneath it convulsing as the nicotine hit home.<p>

Alex wrinkled her nose, winding her window down and promptly back up again as the cold swept straight into the car.

"For God's sake. Your Christmas present is going to be a box of nicotine patches. If anyone's bothered to invent them yet."

Gene gave her the look that clearly told her he hadn't the foggiest what she was going on about. A look that had come into frequent usage since her arrival.

"Yer should start, Bolls. Might bloody calm yer down."

"The day I start smoking is the day you Sellotape your balls to the pavement and hang a sign saying 'come and get it, bum-bandits' on your back," Alex muttered, taking a small selfish delight in the wince that crossed his face before he threw the smouldering cigarette butt out of the window and sniffed, pulling something out of the glove box. Alex raised her eyebrows.

"A balaclava? I thought you'd be more imaginative, Gene."

"'Alf the blaggers an' low-lives in London own a black balaclava. I could be anybody."

He glanced down at his feet, sighing forlornly. Alex followed his gaze, grabbing her seat in faked shock; a pair of battered trainers had replaced the snakeskin boots, tan and blue in colour, completely alien on Gene's highly-arched feet. Even she had to admit that the boots would be sorely missed.

"It's a good move, but won't you be uncomfortable?"

He snorted, handing her a radio and shoving the other into the army-issue duffel bag he yanked out from the back seat, taking the keys from the ignition and pressing them into her hands as though handing her the crown jewels.

"Any sign o' trouble, run. Don't wait fer me."

"You know I can't do that." _Especially after what I realised last night. A world without Gene Hunt is not a world I think I can warm to quickly._

"Yer goin' ter 'ave ter get used ter the idea, Lady Bolly-Kecks, 'cos that's what's 'appenin'. If you get busted as well, 'oo's goin' ter break me out, eh? Keep the Quattro safe. More importantly…" He cleared his throat, shuffling in the seat, unable to meet her eyes. "More importantly, Bolls, you keep yerself safe. Can't 'ave us both locked up, eh?"

_It truly wouldn't be so bad if I were in a cell with you. Oh, Gene. You're so determined to do the right thing._

"I'll try. You be careful too, Gene. I don't want to have to come and visit you in jail every time I want to see you, and the loss of your custom would probably put Luigi out of business."

But they both knew they were joking. They could see it in each other's expressions, the ever-so-slight angle of their bodies towards each other, the way their breath mingled in the cool air of the car. Gene chanced reaching out and laying his hand on her arm, gently caressing, the leather on leather a subtle comfort that neither felt totally comfortable with but would much rather have than do without.

One solitary light turned on in Talbot Street. A door opened, closed, bounced. Stood still.

Gene took the balaclava from the dashboard and pulled it over his head, pausing at his forehead, taking his hands away from a second, as though there was something he needed to do and had forgotten about.

"Gene?"

_Now or never, Genie boy._

He leaned over, quick as the Quattro on speed, and kissed her cheek, then yanked the balaclava fully over his face, shoved a few stray locks of hair inside and shoved the door open, disappearing into the cold still of the night before Alex's cheek had even managed to goosebump at the feel of his lips on it.

Alex lifted her hand to it, stroked it softly, sighed, and shifted over to the driver's seat, clutching the Quattro keys to her chest as the door opened again and the dark figure stole in.

* * *

><p><em>Vault 192. Be quick about it.<em>

The old trainers padded on the black and white tiles, familiar and foreign, as a hidden figure stole through the aisles and corridors of the Talbot Street vaults, a solitary torch catching on the numbers engraved on the fronts of the many safes. This was normally something he locked people up for doing.

He wondered abstractly if CID would be handed the case.

He wondered if Ray might suspect him.

He then wondered if he'd lost his marbles. The few he had left. Some had been scattered by his father, some by Sam's death, and quite a few more by Alex Drake's arrival. Certainly the area of his brain controlling lust had decided it was going to become utterly hyperactive.

_170. 171. 172. 173._

Each step like a funeral drum.

If Mac caught him, he was pretty much dead. He knew that now. Mac didn't tolerate this kind of thing. He'd be strung up by his bollocks and hung out like a kipper. Maybe Mac would give him a nice, quiet death, like poisoning. No. Mac would want it to be noisy, public, and probably messy.

He shivered. It wasn't a thought he particularly relished. It had been preying on him for a while, though, especially since he'd ordered the spaghetti bolognaise at Luigi's and found it closely resembled the intestines of the body they'd found earlier. Well, Ray had had it for him. Luigi, after much grumbling, had done some chips, but Gene suspected the Italian was fonder of him than he made out.

_179. 180. 181._

He was thinking about anything and everything, the world and life, the universe and his DI, pizza and Dexys Midnight Runners, Mac and Sam. Anything to distract him.

Bolly probably had some word for that. She might have mentioned it once, but he wouldn't have been listening. Like the stupid idiot he was. He always felt she was out of his league, as much for her brains as for anything else. He only knew one term to do with psychology- Pavlovian- and that sounded so poncy he never brought it up, not even to impress her. It might have slipped out once or twice when he was drunk, but well, who would listen to him when he was drunk?

Sam. _Bloody Sam. _It had been one of Sam's things, to let the drink relax his DCI, because then he would talk. He'd managed to coax things out of Gene that a hypnotist would struggle to reach. Gene gritted his teeth.

Men like Mac were wrong. Men like Sam were right.

That's what he was doing here.

_190. 191._

_ 192._

His fingers didn't shake as they reached out. They stuttered, like a nervous speaker, like a coward.

Stuttered so much it took him a minute to get the bloody thing open.

And then the alarm sounded.

_Shit!_

He grabbed wildly at documents, shoving them into the bag haphazardly, creasing and tearing in his haste. Envelopes and sheets of paper scattered round him, like demented snow; he scrabbled around on the floor, banging his elbow on the corner of a safe, stunning the nerves. Hissing with pain, his arm near useless, he simply scrambled up and made to run, duffle bag swung over one shoulder, paper littering the tiles behind him.

He didn't realise he was surrounded until a police dog tackled him.

"AHH!"

The dog bit down on his leg, felling him like a rush; he kicked wildly, trying desperately not to injure the animal. He could tell he'd confused it by the way it sat back on its haunches, trying to work out what to do next, watching him with huge soulful eyes. Almost as though it sympathised with him.

"Good boy," Gene whispered, attempting a Southern accent and failing. "Good, good boy. Let me past now. Good boy…"

Two PCs grabbed his arms and shoved him up against the safes, banging his face into the metal as he hissed and writhed, stunning one and being tripped by the other. Someone called an order, and Gene was hauled up, pressed against the metal, blood soaking through the wool fibres of the balaclava.

"Let's have a look," an all-too-familiar voice said, and Gene could have cried with frustration.

_Bloody Mac! What's he doing here?_

"Caught red-handed, sir," one of the PCs said gleefully, yanking the duffle bag from Gene's shoulder and displaying it like a particularly shiny trophy. Gene's lip curled in contempt.

"Thank you, Crawford. Shall we see who our blagger is?"

Gene could only grit his teeth as the balaclava was ripped from his head.

There was complete silence.

"Hello, Gene," Mac said softly, moving round to Gene's back and sliding a pair of handcuffs from his waist, a triumphant smirk on his face. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

He seized Gene's hands, cuffing them together at the small of his back.

"But then, a lot of things that happen are unexpected," Mac said quietly, his hand sliding up to Gene's head, smoothing his hair back to let him see the shocked and amused faces staring at him from all sides. The DCI focussed firmly on the safe number in front of his nose. _162._

"Terry Haslam. Your old friend Harry Woolf. Sam's death…"

_Sam's death… wait._

"And now this," Mac murmured, his lips almost at Gene's earlobe, his breath brushing Gene's jaw.

And he knocked Gene's head so hard he dropped like a stone.

* * *

><p>As a triumphant Mac watched Gene's senseless body being loaded into a police van, the tail lights of a very familiar Audi Quattro caught the corner of his eye.<p>

A tiny smile quirked the corner of his lip up.

_Don't think I'm not onto you, Drake. I always said you were trouble. If I can't bring Hunt round, you'll be next… and I won't be so lenient with you._

"I'll guard him."

And he eased into the back of the police van, taking his gun out of its holster and placing it on Gene's neck as he settled into a comfortable position for the ride back.

The Manc Lion out cold in front of him. Exactly the result he wanted. He dropped the gun to the floor of the van, a sly grin on his face. _Persuasion. Call it persuasion._

Gene's eyelids flickered as the pain began to come.

* * *

><p>AN: So. Gene's been arrested and is in the back of a police van, Alex has been rumbled, they don't know what those documents were and Mac's got Gene exactly where he wants him. It's not looking good… but you know me, I look for something positive in everything. Er. Um. Well. At least… at least the Quattro doesn't have a puncture! *sheepish smile* Soo… please review, and more soon, should people want it! Jazzola


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: A couple of things. 1- sorry for everyone who has reviewed, but the review reply links aren't working, so I will take this opportunity instead to thank you all hugely and plead for you to review this too. 2- I've decided to alter the timeline a bit to make this somewhat AU. It is either at the end of or post series 2, but Alex was not shot by Gene and Ray is still a DS, plus Shaz and Chris are still together. Sorry, but I didn't really think it through, I dreamed this up partially during a lecture and partially during a Philosophy essay (still got an A though, despite not having revised!) and so it got a little messed up. Anyhoo. Read on, please review, and I hope you enjoy! Jazzola

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><p>"Interview commencing at nine twenty-five a.m. on the thirtieth of November 1982. Officers present, Chief Superintendent Charles Mackintosh, Police Constable Crawford. The accused will state his name."<p>

Gene remained silent, taking a long drag on his cigarette. Mac's eyebrows drew together.

"Very well. The accused is Eugene Hunt. He is exercising his right to stay silent."

Gene simply pouted thoughtfully, opening his mouth as if to speak and then closing it again with a smug look. Mac scowled.

"Mr Hunt, would you like to take this opportunity to explain why you were caught robbing a vault in the Talbot Street bank at three thirty this morning? A vault that just so happened to belong to myself."

Gene took another lungful of nicotine.

"Your defence is non-existant, Hunt. It's much better if you just tell us the reasoning behind what you did. You never know, the judge might be a bit more lenient if there's real motivation behind  
>your actions."<p>

The DCI stubbed his cigarette out and scratched behind his ear, focusing on a fascinating doodle on the desk. Mac smiled.

"A rough childhood. Your dad used to beat you up, didn't he?"

Gene's eyes swerved up so fast it was almost painful. Mac raised his eyebrows.

"Never felt you were good enough. Even reaching the status of DCI, there was still that nagging guilt… you weren't quite up to the standard of others. Did you think you had to beat me? Was that it? Knock something off me to raise your own status. Was that it? Jealousy? Or was it to prove something? Prove that you could be a successful police officer, but also be a successful criminal? Have you committed crimes before?"

Gene laughed. There was no mirth in the sound.

"Believe me, the jury will sympathise. Show them the scars… tell them the tales… they'll be falling over themselves. Or maybe not. Not if it's a bad jury. Then there'll be very little of that. But still… luck might be on your side, eh?"

Mac reached out, touching a scar beside Gene's eyebrow, paled with age. Gene flinched away.

"The memories, Gene… do they take you over sometimes? The guilt? How you survived when your family didn't? Is that what this is about?"

Mac's hand moved over to sit next to Gene's forearm, the fingers twitching towards it. Gene put his other hand protectively over it, glaring evils at the Chief Super, drawing back in his seat.

"Come on, Gene. Talk. Talk to us."

It was amazing, Gene mused, how someone could sound so soft and gentle and yet have an expression of smug triumph better suited to an acquitted mass murderer. _Did Mac go to acting school, or is this just his- natural talent- shining through?_

"You're backed into a corner. You need to tell us why you did this."

_You know why I robbed a bloody bank, yer smug bastard. Because yer as bent as a ten-bob bit an' I want ter bring you an' yer corrupt empire down. But that wouldn' go down well with the higher-ups. Bet they're Masons too. Bastards._

"Very well then. Crawford, take Mr Hunt back down to the cells."

One thick finger reached out to turn the tape machine off. Gene raised his eyebrows.

"Don't tell Viv which cell," Mac said softly, his eyes gleaming as they rested on the DCI opposite him. "Give him explicit orders not to look, and not to take Mr Hunt food or water. In fact, Mr Hunt is to be completely ignored until he decides he wants to confess. Do I make myself clear?"

Crawford nodded eagerly, moving forwards to seize Gene's sore arm. The pain seared through his skin, but he didn't want to give the bastard the satisfaction, gritting his teeth and ignoring it as Mac turned the tape recorder back on, speaking in the same deceptively placid voice even as his lip curled up in sly elation.

"Interview concluded at nine twenty-nine."

It was only as Crawford hauled him out of the room that Gene realised Mac hadn't offered him a solicitor.

_That'll look good._

And then reality superimposed itself.

_I'm bein' locked in a cell without food or water indefinitely, completely at Mac's mercy. Oh, bloody hell. Where are yer when I need yer, Bolly?_

* * *

><p>CID seemed incredibly empty without Gene.<p>

The life had gone out of the place this morning; even Chris falling over delivering the tea and dousing Ray's trousers in Twinings had failed to get more than a chuckle from anyone. Nobody knew where Gene was, nobody really knew what had happened and Ray and Chris especially were beginning to become concerned.

Alex sat, listened to the DC's theories as to what had happened to their DCI, and tried not to imagine Gene cold and alone, in an unforgiving cell beneath where she sat right now, maybe longing for a cigarette or something to drink, probably hungry, almost certainly exhausted.

Would he be able to sleep? Or would the mattress simply prove too hard and his dilemma too awful to allow him some rest?

_Viv better take him something good to eat._

Just at that moment, the Desk Sergeant in question burst into the department, a bunch of keys dangling from his fingers as he headed straight to Alex's desk, his eyebrows so closely pursed in concern it was almost comical. Alex stood up, ignoring her chair scooting back to bang into the whiteboard, leaving a smear of black paint on the smooth sheen.

"DCI Hunt's being held in one of the cells below the station, he's been arrested on suspicion of robbery," he got out before CID exploded with questions, the entire department crowding round Viv, demanding answers. Viv raised his hands.

"Be quiet! I need to talk with DI Drake! QUIET!"

The office finally quietened. Viv turned back to Alex, his frown deepening at the total absence of surprise or shock on his superior officer's face.

"Did you know?"

"Yes. I saw him after Chief Superintendent Mackintosh arrested him."

"What, the Guv actually did a robbery?" Chris asked, grabbing at Ray's desk to steady himself. Alex nodded.

"He did. For a good reason. A very good reason. Lives may depend on him being released."

"I very much doubt it, Alex."

CID swerved as one, all eyes drawn to the double doors as one smoothly opened, drawing back to reveal a grey coat, slicked-back black hair, gleaming brown eyes behind thick glasses.

DCI Jim Keats almost strutted into CID, one arm holding onto a bruised, handcuffed and thoroughly worse for wear Gene Hunt, leading him like a pet into his own department, barely even pausing to let him get his balance before shoving him against the wall and putting an arm over his chest to stop him moving. Gene struggled to get away, snarling at the D&C officer in a way that would have most criminals dirtying their underwear, but Keats simply smiled and took hold of Gene's handcuffs, holding them down in a way that would certainly hurt Gene's shoulders. Ray moved forwards, but Alex tapped his shoulder and he groaned, backing away.

"Are you OK, Guv?" Alex asked softly, moving forwards. Gene opened his mouth to speak, but Keats tugged on the handcuffs, bringing a hastily-stifled hiss of pain from his enemy's lips.

"DCI Hunt is not allowed to speak with any member of his department whilst he is under arrest. I simply brought him here to- reassure- you of his status."

Gene scowled, looking away.

"Let go o' the 'andcuffs," Ray growled, stepping forwards once again. Alex let him.

"If I did that, he might escape, DS Carling. You are a detective, aren't you?"

Keats' patronising tone only served to heighten the atmosphere even further. A cracking of knuckles could be heard in the tense silence.

"As you can see, Mr Hunt is perfectly alright, apart from being under arrest, of course."

Gene aimed a kick at the DCI's leg.

"Still kicking, as they might say," Keats deadpanned, neatly sidestepping the kick. "Well, must be off. Mr Hunt has an interview to complete, I believe Chief Superintendent Mackintosh is using the case to train up one of the PCs."

"Train 'im up ter be a corrupt bastard, just like Mac," Ray muttered, his tone challenging. Gene raised his head, hope and pride in his eyes, just as Keats released the handcuffs in shock, taking a step towards the DS.

"I suggest you don't repeat what you just said, DS Carling. Ever. I think I'll postpone the interview, Mr Hunt will need some time in the cells instead."

"Which cell?" Viv asked, his hand instinctively clenching on the bunch of keys at his waist. Keats smiled mirthlessly.

"Chief Super Mac would prefer that information was kept from Mr Hunt's department, to avoid anyone letting him out. Well, tally-ho. I'll keep you informed."

He turned, a smug smile darkening his face, and took Gene's handcuffs again.

Alex's voice cut through the air, thick with anger.

"With all due respect, _sir_, I'd rather you stayed away from this department and left us alone. We'll be busy proving _DCI _Hunt's innocence."

She somehow managed to make 'sir' sound more like 'festering maggot gut'. Gene grinned through the bruises.

Keats simply smiled.

"I'm afraid that'll be rather hard, DI Drake."

He turned back to address the room, releasing Gene again momentarily, putting his hands on his hips. CID glared back at him with obvious hatred.

"Because, you see, as of now, I am acting DCI for this department."

* * *

><p>The cell they'd put him in stank of stale piss and vomit, a bucket making up his lavatory, a wipe-clean mattress icy against his already goosebumped skin. He shuddered with cold, curling up, certain he'd be hypothermic before they let him out again. Even interview with Bent Bastard Mac sounded better than this slow, cold festering down here, curved up like a child hiding from his parents, his stomach grumbling like an old man, steadily suffocating in this concrete prison. He swore it was getting harder to breathe.<p>

He wondered if Mac was trying to kill him.

He wondered if he was a real danger.

He then wondered if Ray was as well. That outburst had made Gene so proud of his DS, unafraid to take his Guv's back and defend him, having learnt his lesson in 1973. But at the same time, it might have put Ray's name on Mac's bloodstained little list. He desperately hoped it hadn't. Ray, for all his shortcomings (and the awful moustache), was a good friend and Gene would fight tooth and nail if his DS was in danger. _If Mac touches a hair on 'is 'ead…_

His hand strayed to his own forearm, and he exhaled hard, one finger tracing the thick cuts on his forearm. It would probably plague his sleep for several years, coming round with the headache from Hades and his arm screaming with pain to find Mac's face looming in the dim lighting, unable to resist. He prayed Alex had had enough sense to get out of there as soon as the Mac Brigade had turned up. If anything happened to her… well, Gene really would fight to the death then. He wouldn't want to live without her.

_Stop that, yer soft bastard!_

He groaned, licking his dry lips with the little moisture left in his mouth. Nobody had brought him any water for at least ten hours. He could barely open his eyes for wooziness and hunger.

"'Elp me, Bolly," he whispered into the silence of the cell, closing his eyes in defeat, one fist clenching on the mattress. "Please. 'Elp me."

His fist loosened as his eyes slid closed, his chest calming incrementally as his whole body relaxed, his head lolling back to rest against the wall.

Outside, Mac smiled, nodding with mock respect at the cell door before walking jauntily away, whistling 'I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles' to himself.

* * *

><p>"As much as I'm enjoying surveying my new department, DI Drake, could you please tell me where the keys are to my office?"<p>

"I've already told you, it's not your office, and Gene wouldn't let you in, so you can't," Alex replied for the fifteenth time, barely even glancing up from the paperwork she was filling in. Keats was stood in the middle of the office, looking like the loser at Musical Chairs and thoroughly locked out of Gene's office; several of the DCs sniggered as they passed by on their way to their lunch break, one knocking his shoulder into the DCI as they left. Keats gritted his teeth, plastering on a fake smile and bending to Alex's height, his eyes dark behind the immaculate glasses.

"DI Drake, I really do recommend that you hand over the keys to my office."

Alex met his gaze with what could only be described as faintly amused contempt. Ray grinned behind Keats, leaning forwards to see how the exchange would progress.

"DCI Keats, I really do recommend that you take your patronising self and your pathetic boss and vanish sharpish before I have to demonstrate my patented method of blunt-object castration on the pair of you."

She flashed a smile that would have been better suited to a crocodile, picking up her paperwork and slotting it back into the file. Ray smirked.

"Do I detect some insubordination here, DI Drake?" Keats said in a low voice, bending even closer to Alex's face over the desk. Alex didn't even look up at him.

"No, DCI Keats. What you detect is a complete lack of respect for yourself or your boss, the desire to have you out of my department before someone is sick at the sight of you, and my recommendation that you release Gene Hunt before I lose my temper and do something really very un-ladylike to yourself."

Keats stood back up, his expression set in stone. Alex swore there was a flash of red in his gaze when she met it defiantly, her chin jutting out, every inch the fighter. CID had gone silent, watching to a man with baited breath, even Shaz's Walkman going silent in the pregnant pause.

Keats re-opened his mouth, his lip curling up.

"Very well. Detective Inspector Alexandra Drake, I am formally suspending you for insubordination towards a senior officer. You are to leave the building immediately and return home to await further contact."

The entire office erupted.

Ray was the first to surge forwards, his fist slamming into Keats' head as the DCs let out what sounded like a war cry, stampeding into the fray. The DCI completely disappeared beneath the tidal wave of police officers trying to punch him, Chris landing a sound kick on his back, Shaz managing to drop a paperweight on his flailing foot as Keats screamed for help, writhed and scratched and bit, a modern-day demonic Caesar beneath the seething mass of humans who hated his guts.

None of them noticed Alex sneaking out, casting one smug look back at the tumult before heading up the corridor, her high heels clacking determinedly on the concrete.


	3. Chapter 3

It was so simple. Almost too simple. What did you do with a miscarriage of justice?

Go to someone who could sort it out.

_Mac's bent and rotten to the core, but not all of them go along with his pathetic little schemes and his filthy corruption. Gene's cherry-picked those decent officers who are left._

Chief Superintendent Richard Jones, to be precise. He and Mac shared a rank, but among those who carried influence, Chief Super Jones was the senior. Not only did he have a good bit more experience than Mac, but he was also in the Commissioner's inner circle and as straight as a die. Only his age- and his desire to remain alive- kept him from interfering with Mac.

_Well, if he doesn't start interfering now, it won't be his life that's on a knife edge. It'll be Gene's._

She passed PC Crawford in the corridor, holding Gene's warrant card. The smirk he gave her was enough to make a saint start wondering about which orifice to stick something sharp at.

Alex was far from a saint.

After a brief tussle, PC Crawford's chances of fathering children were much reduced and Alex had possession of the warrant card, heading down the corridor to the much-appreciated sound of Keats having seven bells knocked out of him by various members of CID. For a second, she wondered when she had become so violent; Gene's smile flashed in her mind's eye, and she smiled wryly to herself, trying and failing to suppress a giggle.

Yes, CID's conduct was falling apart. But things were coming to a head, she'd known that as soon as Gene had been arrested. Soon Mac would be in the firing line and they would be (relatively, at least) safe.

_Chief Superintendent Jones. I'm sorry if it's a bad time, but DCI Hunt's in a lot of danger and I need your help in sorting out a bit of corruption- I promise you won't regret it, and we won't let Mac get to you, but Gene really is in a lot of trouble and I have to help him out of it._

Pull on the heart-strings. Assure him Gene was in danger. That was exactly what she needed to do.

His office was right in front of her. Slightly ajar, so she knocked and pushed it open, her hand shaking very slightly.

There was total silence in the small room.

Until Alex screamed.

* * *

><p>"You ready to talk, Hunt?"<p>

"S-sod off."

The cold was making it hard to think clearly, luring Gene into a deceptively lucid state which only made him feel more agitated. Determined not to give Mac any satisfaction, Gene gritted his teeth to try and stop his teeth chattering. Mac gave a wolfish smile.

"I'm sure you'd like to get warm, Gene. I could turn up the heating down here… we could have a little natter, you know. Like men. Like brothers."

"I'm not yer b-brother an' I never will be," Gene hissed, wrapping his arms round himself to try and save heat, glaring at Mac. The Chief Super simply smiled.

"But it could get you out of this, Gene. You join us, and all the charges will be dropped, it'll have been a misunderstanding and that will have been that. You become one of us, and we'll forget all of this, we'll be brothers, we'll be kinsmen. You'd like that, wouldn't you, Gene? To be back in your CID, back in charge of your officers, back with your Alex. Would be brilliant, wouldn't it? Just say the word. There's a meeting tonight, I can take you along. We'll warm you up- can't be shivering while you're becoming one of us now, can we? There's a ceremony- you can clean yourself up, go home, talk to Alex. You can be one of us. The future of the Metropolitan Police. We keep London safe, Gene."

Gene raised his head, his eyes guarded, dark. Mac smiled, putting a hand out on Gene's shoulder.

"Just say the word, Gene. Say the word."

Gene shuddered under Mac's fingers, clenching his fists on his back. His face was devoid of expression.

And then the fire in his eyes burst back into life.

"Did yer say that ter Kevin Hales, too? Promise 'im 'e'd be part o' _the future o' the Metropolitan Police, _'e'd be a _brother_, a _kinsman_. An' then yer 'ad 'im imprisoned and murdered. Just a pawn in yer game. You betrayed 'is trust. You think I'd ever, _ever_, join the Masons, after what you've done? You sicken me. All of yer."

Mac sat for a second, completely still. Gene held his breath.

The first punch was unexpected. The second just hurt.

And then Mac was on his feet, pushing Gene to the floor, punching and smacking and kicking and hurting, hurting so much; Gene tried in vain to fight back, launching himself at Mac's legs, but he gave it away too soon and Mac simply dodged out of his way, landing a solid kick on Gene's back as the DCI howled with agony and rage, swerving to land a single punch on Mac's shin and being rewarded with a gasp of pain-

"STOP, OR I'LL SHOOT!"

Gene glanced up, just in time to get a fist in the face from Mac.

As he spat blood out of his mouth, peering up towards the doorway, he glimpsed Crawford with a gun behind Mac's broad frame, a grin on his face, the barrel trained on Gene's head.

_Game bloody over. Oh, bloody great._

"I have a warrant to request your holding in Fenchurch Scrubs until your trial in two days' time, Mr Hunt," Crawford said evenly, a glimmer of triumph in his eyes. "Since you're also getting into fights with police officers, I should recommend putting you in with the inmates for the time being. We can arrange it, you know. The prison governor is a- particular- friend of mine."

The grin grew. Gene nursed his injured arm, seething with pent-up fury, soul utterly willing to launch himself at Crawford and Mac and rip them apart with his bare hands but body very much unable to.

"I'm sure the inmates there will be very, _very _pleased to see you, Mr Hunt. Especially as you put the majority of them away there. Several names spring to mind… oh yes. You'll get a very warm reception. Blood temperature, I should think."

"I'd work on the 'evil-mastermind' lines, if I were you," Gene growled, pushing himself up and straightening his back, hugely enjoying looking down on both Mac and Crawford. "They lack somethin'… imagination, intelligence, effect…"

Crawford made to knee him in the groin. Gene got there first, watching with some satisfaction despite subsequently being grabbed by Mac as the PC sank to the floor, clutching his crown jewels.

"That's the second time today, Crawford," Mac sighed, watching his officer unsympathetically as he snapped the cuffs on Gene's wrists, holding him firmly against the wall. Gene knew without looking that the wall would be spotted with blood when he moved away.

"'Oo was the first?"

"Your bloody DI Drake," Crawford hissed, kicking out at Gene's ankle and missing by a country mile. Even Mac looked contemptuous.

"Remind me ter get 'er some flowers after you two are be'ind bars where yer belong," Gene smirked back, getting a knee in the small of the back for his efforts. He bore the pain like the veteran he was, refusing to let Mac see he was getting to him.

"Shall we, Gene? The prison van's waiting."

* * *

><p>"It's alright, ma'am, just sit down an' I'll make yer another cuppa… it's OK, ma'am. It's OK."<p>

"He was… He was…"

"I know, ma'am. I know. It must've been an awful shock."

"And _Gene_…"

"The Guv'll be fine, ma'am. 'Ere yer go… drink that."

Alex's shaking fingers clutched the mug of tea Shaz was pushing into her hands, sweetened with what seemed like half the sugar in the station. Ray was talking as quietly as he could with two men Alex didn't recognise, both clutching police files; Chris was in the kitchen, trying to figure out what to do next with the other DCs. From what Alex could hear, most of them thought going after Keats again and beating him up somewhere very public would be the best thing, but Keats was safely ensconced in hospital at the mercy of the NHS and would not be relinquished for a little while yet.

"Are they- are they getting him down?" Alex asked hesitantly, waving a trembling hand in the vague direction of Chief Superintendent Jones' office. Shaz nodded, calmly lifting the tea to Alex's lips to make her take a sip.

"There was a note in 'is jacket, said 'e was committin' suicide an' that 'e just didn' see any point carryin' on, but I'm not so sure. Didn' look like 'is 'andwritin' ter me."

"Chief Super Jones' handwriting is very small, italic, and he curls his fs, gs, ps and qs up," Alex murmured, one finger tracing the letters in the air as she spoke. "What's the writing on the note like?"

"Big, chunky, no curl ups. That's why I thought. They used a different pen, too. The pen on the Chief Super's desk used blue ink, the note was written in black ink."

"Well done, Shaz." Alex took another sip of treacly tea, the combination of sweetness and police work beginning to calm her jangling nerves. "So we can put a case forward that the note wasn't written by Richard Jones. It was probably either Mac or PC Crawford… PC Crawford. Mac won't want to put his own neck on the line…"

Her voice tailed off as the metaphor she'd used echoed in the room. Shaz hurriedly tipped more tea into her superior officer's mouth.

"Come on, ma'am. Drink up, an' we can go an' talk to the Commissioner about it. Well, you'll talk to 'im. I'm just a WPC."

"The smartest WPC I've ever known, Shaz Granger, and don't you ever forget it. Gene has the papers in his desk for your promotion, you know."

Shaz turned a rather fetching shade of pink, hurriedly bowing her head to try and hide the smile on her face. Alex just smiled back, a little shakily.

"Ma'am?"

Both women swerved as DC Terry Smith yelled into CID, his normally placid face filled with panic, eyes wide. Ray leapt up from his chair as though it had scalded him.

"There's a prison van outside. They're taking the Guv to Fenchurch Scrubs!"

* * *

><p>The light burned his eyes, the tarmac under his bare feet stinging. There was blood staining his clothes, more matting his hair, and he could barely stand upright. Gene knew it was meant to be a public humiliation, the Manc Lion tamed and beaten into submission for all to see. But he couldn't find it in himself to care any more.<p>

If he really was going to Fenchurch Scrubs, to be put in with the assorted scum he'd put away there, he'd be dead within the hour.

None of them would exactly be pleased to see him now, would they?

He didn't register the driver getting out and greeting Mac, or the curious look the man gave him as the rear doors were unlocked. His feet were now frozen, blue and numb, his socks and trainers discarded somewhere in the station; he thanked whatever higher being that might be listening they didn't have his snakeskin boots. Those boots felt more a part of him than his own ball-sack.

"If you please, Gene."

Mac's voice was dripping with smug triumph, his eyes gleaming cruelly. Gene glared. _You know I won't make it up those stairs, yer greasy bastard. It's all a part of this game yer playin'. Grindin' me down. Not goin' ter 'appen._

"Can't, Mack. 'Aven't 'ad my phone call yet."

"Lift him up," Mac instructed, kicking the backs of Gene's knees; the DCI collapsed into Crawford's arms, felling both of them.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Crawford. Get him in the van before I shoot you, you incompetent tosser."

Crawford, looking severely disgruntled, hauled Gene up like an unruly drunk, depositing him in the cold cell of the prison van; Mac closed the doors behind him, smiling through at Gene like a crocodile would smile at a goldfish. Gene gritted his teeth, punching the wall of the van and yelping at the pain that flared through his hand. The frustration was too much to bear.

"Bolly… where are yer when I need yer, Bolly?"

He was a six-year-old boy again, locked in the cupboard under the stairs, bruised and battered by his father. Just for a second, he thought he could hear his mother outside, screaming his name, shrieking at his father to get off her; he shut his eyes tight, but ripped them back open again as someone pounded on the back doors of the van and a voice that was now clearly Alex's yelled his name, raw desperation lacing each syllable.

"Gene! Gene, we'll have you out of there by tonight, I promise, sweetheart! I promise!"

_Sweetheart? Soft mare… wait. She called me sweetheart?_

Gene couldn't stop his heart doing a triple flip as her words sunk in, so affected by them he nearly forgot to reply.

"Oh… I- shit! Get me out, Bolls! I'll buy yer all the Bollinger Luigi can fit in 'is cellar if yer get me out of 'ere- an' if yer comin' ter the prison, bring some socks an' shoes fer me, eh?"

"You're _bare-footed_? Gene, what have they done to you? I'll kill you, Charles Mackintosh- I'll kill you!"

"I'd be careful who you say that in front of, DI Drake."

Gene, giving up on dignity, pushed his mouth to the crack between the doors and screamed her name, yelling "Alex! Alex!" as the van pulled away and the indicator clicked on, like a funeral drum as Alex's cries became fainter and fainter and the rumbles of the van gradually eclipsed her voice.

Gene collapsed to the floor of the van and curled into himself, trying and failing to stop shivering.

* * *

><p>"One Eugene 'Unt, believed 'ypofermic. Just give 'im a blanket, doc, 'e's probably fakin' it. They've said 'e's goin' straight in with the rest of 'em, an' believe me, 'e ain't keen, seein' as 'e put most of 'em there. 'E's a copper. A DCI, no less."<p>

Jabbering like a housewife and with an expression of mild disbelief on his face, the young Cockney prison guard holding onto Gene's elbow all but threw him into the optomistically-named Medical Bay of Fenchurch Scrubs, a small, grey room containing a bed, a box of syringes, a suitcase and a doctor, a mild-looking elderly man with swept-back hair and eyes reminiscent of Father Christmas. Gene's legs, too battered to hold him up, folded like a wounded deer's beneath him; with his arms cuffed behind his back, he was left to fall flat on his face onto the floor of the medical bay, moaning quietly about "police brutality". The doctor raised his eyebrows.

"Can you tell me, Steve, how I am meant to treat him for hypothermia if his arms are cuffed behind his back? It's one of the worst positions for maintaining body heat. Uncuff him."

"But doc…"

"I don't give a damn what the governor said. Uncuff him, now, or I'll get an ambulance for him, and your governor really wouldn't like that."

Steve sniffed, leaning down to uncuff the DCI lying at his feet and haul him up onto the bed beside him, watching Gene's trembling.

"You know what, doc? 'E don't look so good."

"That's why he's in the Medical Bay, Steve," the doctor explained patiently, his voice akin to that of someone explaining an everyday concept to a recalcitrant child. Gene smirked through his chattering teeth.

"Go and get some more blankets for me, would you, Steve? I've got a thermometer."

Steve nodded, heading off somewhere whistling as the doctor eased over to sit beside Gene, putting his hand on Gene's pulse. The DCI knocked his hands away, huddling into himself, trying and failing to summon up the full Gene Genie glare at the man.

"Mr Hunt, you're absolutely freezing. I need to know exactly how cold you are so as to determine what's best to do with you."

Eyeing the syringes beside the bed with some apprehension, Gene fell silent, letting the doctor press his fingers to his neck.

"Racing. If you'd just open your mouth so I can pop a thermometer in… I'm Doctor Wexford, by the way. And I happen to be on your side. I wouldn't trust Charles Mackintosh as far as I could throw Brighton Pier."

Gene raised his head, a little quickly-quashed hope in his eyes as Dr Wexford retrieved the thermometer and took a reading.

"35˚… you really need to warm up. Steve! Where are those blankets? Thank you very much… just hold those in place, Mr Hunt. Now. Tell me, what's got you into this mess?"

"Robbed M-Mac's vault. In T-Talbot Street. Found out 'e 'ad somethin' in there th-that could prove 'e was c-corrupt," Gene muttered, trying not to show his thankfulness for the blankets. "They're p-puttin' me in with all the p-people I've put away. They'll bloody c-cut me open an' d-drag me insides out wi' b-blunt instruments."

"There's not a lot I can do about that, Mr Hunt," Dr Wexford said quietly, rubbing Gene's arms as the shivering began to abate. "Do you have any colleagues on side? Anyone I can contact?"

"DI Drake. Alex Drake. 'Er number… yer got a pad?"

Something, his copper's nous, told him Dr Wexford was on his side. The doctor nodded, pulling a pad from his coat and jotting down the number Gene narrated in elegant italic script, then handed it over for Gene to scrawl 'Alex Drake- DI, Fenchurch East CID' in his messy Mancunian scribble. _'Ope 'e can read it. My teachers never could._

"I'll contact her… hello, Steve. Back so soon?"

The prison guard wore a slightly apologetic expression, holding out a pair of handcuffs in both hands. Gene glared.

"Got to take Mr 'Unt frew now. The governor said 'e'll warm up fine in the cells. Everyone's 'avin' their food."

Dr Wexford nodded silently, pulling a drawer by his side open and rummaging about in it, retrieving a pair of socks and handing them to his patient. Gene gave a thankful huff.

"I'm not letting you walk about with bare feet, Mr Hunt. You keep warm, OK? You don't want to get any colder. And," he added in a quiet voice, as Steve turned away to have a bellowed conversation with a mate halfway across the prison, "I'll phone, er, DI Drake, and try to organise something. Just try to stay safe, try to keep out of their way."

"OK. Ta, doc."

"My pleasure. Take care."

And then his wrists were cuffed behind his back once again, and he was stumbling on feet that were beginning to regain sensation into a broad, incredibly spartan room with a few half-broken chairs and the odd table, filled to the brim with the scum of London's streets.

One of whom had just recognised the man standing in the doorway.

"Bloody 'ell," the man hissed, revealing several missing teeth and blackened gums as his mouth fell open in shock, a cigarette dropping from his lips. Gene raised his head, staring straight past the people in the room in feigned nonchalance, trying hard not to shrink back as David Bonds walked slowly forwards, both hands clenching into fists at his side, his face beginning to fill with utter rage, eyes popping.

"Gene Hunt, as I live an' breathe… not so mighty now, are ya?"

"I'm innocent," Gene replied loudly, his voice echoing in the sudden silence that had dropped over the room like a lead tarpaulin. Each and every face was turned his way, bloodshot and hooded eyes flicking between the DCI and David Bonds, one standing tall, the other almost exploding with fury.

Bonds stepped closer, less than an inch away from Gene as Steve stood by, a little unsure. The old man's teeth were grinding unpleasantly, every inch of his body shaking with anger; Gene knew with a horrible clarity what was coming, but dodging would only anger him further.

His old childhood instincts kicked in, and he closed his eyes, his mind beginning to shut down, anticipating the suffering that was sure to come.

"You killed my son, you bastard!"

And then there was a pair of wrinkled fists slamming into his face, and Gene just had time to register a lot of pain and noise and being dragged backwards before the darkness took him over.

* * *

><p>AN: That got rather long! Please remember to review, or I'll get Gene to bring you to my study and do my History revision for me. And nobody wants to be doing that, trust me. Hope you enjoyed it, and more soon. Jazzola :D Oh, and almost forgot: full marks and go to the top of the class if you spotted the reference to The Ruth Rendell Mysteries, which was one of Philip Glenister's first TV appearances back in the early 90s. (I am giving out hyperlinks if anyone wants to watch- either the whole episode or just his parts. Who wants to see the Gene Genie aged 28?)


	4. Chapter 4

"I thought I told you to stay safe and keep out of their way, Mr Hunt?"

Gene's eyes slowly flickered open to find a concrete ceiling above him, bleak grey walls surrounding his prone body, pain ricocheting through his skull as he fought to awaken. Someone was at his side, their hands on his head; for a second disorientation swamped him, and he yelped, thrashing upright and scrabbling around for any kind of weapon, any meagre defence he could manage.

"Mr Hunt, it's alright. I'm Dr Wexford. You remember me?"

_Oh. Bollocks. Well done, Hunt, yer look like a twonk. Again._

"Um… yeah."

"It's normal to be a bit confused. You took a bit of a battering before Steve got that David Bonds in isolation and all but dragged you back here. For a man who must be past sixty, he can pack quite a punch… but I don't need to tell you that."

Gene looked down. His chest and stomach were laid bare, each a menagerie of bruises and cuts, a couple of fist shapes apparent.

"Bloody 'ell."

"That's a good paraphrasing of what I said."

The doctor glanced round at the door, open an inch to allow air into the room; he moved towards Gene, lowering his voice.

"I contacted DI Drake on the number you gave me. She'll be coming to the prison tonight and pretend to have been sent here on a wild goose chase- looking for a prisoner who was transferred to another prison a couple of days ago, pretending the files weren't updated or she was mistaken. The prison governor had to authorise you staying here for the night after Bonds attacked you, it's procedure and it would look very suspicious if he said no. So DI Drake will be brought into an adjacent room while we look up the prisoner- at which point, I will head home. Except I'll be staying the night here."

"Eh?"

The doctor smiled, holding up a spare set of clothes. Gene's eyes lit up as though someone had tripped a switch behind them.

"I will stay here, but _I _will go home. The lads at the desk don't know me, as long as you have ID and put on a bit of an accent you'll be fine."

_Think of Bolly. Plum in gob._

"Dr Wexford at your service. If you would please open the gates, sir?"

"Pretty good," the doctor laughed, pulling a screen across to hide them from sight. "You get dressed and stay under the blanket. Alex won't be late, I can guarantee. She sounded like she was crying when I was talking to her on the phone."

"She OK?"

_Bollocks. Far too quick ter be passed off as concern fer a fellow officer._

Dr Wexford simply smiled, nodded, and made his way out to the doctor's study, humming 'We've Only Just Begun' under his breath. Gene made a mental note to refrain from punching him, no matter how much he might suspect about himself and DI Drake.

Meanwhile, he had important things to do. Like practising being posh, and dressing like a ponce.

* * *

><p>Richard Dullastone. Fenchurch East CID wanted to talk to him about the violent mugging of an elderly woman a week ago, five days before Richard had been convicted of GBH against a twenty-five-year-old man and sent down for a fifteen-year stretch in Fenchurch Scrubs.<p>

Or supposedly wanted to talk to him.

Ray had already said that he was perfectly happy to jump up and down on Dullastone's nuts for a while to give Alex the chance to get Gene out of prison. Chris had provided a car for Alex to take instead of the Quattro, one that Keats and Mac didn't know the numberplate of and so couldn't follow; Shaz had filled out the relevant paperwork in double-quick time and had somehow managed to 'get it through a court' without anyone else getting even a sniff of what was happening. Alex had made a vow to not stop nagging Gene until she was promoted to at least DC. Preferably DS.

The plan was in action. All Alex could do now was play her part, be at the prison in time, and hope that Gene pulled his side of the bargain off successfully.

She bit down on her nail once more, and jangled the keys in her pocket as quietly as she could. Her nerves were jangling enough.

* * *

><p>"Dr Wexford, heading home for the night. Could you open the gates, please? My car's being fixed, a friend's picking me up from the front of the prison."<p>

Gene's hurriedly-improvised excuse for why Dr Wexford wasn't going out the back way as normal seemed to wash with the disinterested young security guard listening to Ultravox at the highest volume his Walkman could manage; _it's almost too easy, _he smirked to himself as the gates opened in front of his nose and he headed out, nodding at the youth as he went. _Mac is goin' ter be bloody furious._

The wind stung his eyes a little, whipping his carefully-brushed hair out of shape before he could even attempt to grapple it back into place; he sighed, turning his face to the heavens and finding a sudden appreciation of the cold air on his skin. _Freedom. Freezin' air, bastard wind. All bloody freedom._ He didn't know what car Alex would be turning up in, had only been told that it was a green one loaned by Chris; setting his jaw back into its normal defiant jut, he looked around for somewhere to sit and take the strain of standing up off his battered torso whilst he waited.

What Gene hadn't reckoned on was the sudden appearance of a prisoner from the back of one of the vans. The sudden appearance, to be precise, of one Gaynor Mason.

_Oh, shit._

Gaynor, her arm held securely by one of the prison guards, didn't notice him immediately; Gene kept his head down, his eyes flickering between Gaynor's sharp blue ones and the road, praying that Alex had the good sense to turn up now, just when he needed her, and save him from the clutches of the prison governor and Gaynor, Gaynor's defiant blue gaze, the gaze that had just locked onto him and left her face a picture of shock-

"You alright, love?"

_No. No, no! Oh, bloody 'ell…_

Gene couldn't see how he could leg it; the guards would be onto him in seconds, hounds on a limping stag. Gaynor remained staring at him, her cherry-red mouth slightly open, and Gene adopted the most innocent face he could, pretending he hadn't noticed her laser-beam stare and focussing back on the road, praying in his head for Alex to get here, to _bloody arrive_ before the game was up and he was thrown into a nice cold cell for the night at Her Majesty's dubious pleasure, oh God, how would he explain this one and not get Wexford into trouble, help, he couldn't go back there, he couldn't-

Gaynor turned back to the guard and smiled innocently, shaking her head.

"I just thought I knew him. It's not the same person, I don't think- he's too tall to be the fella I was thinking of."

Gene wondered for a moment, head reeling with thankfulness, if his relief had actually become physical and constricted his breathing.

_Bloody feels like it._

Feigning slight interest, he nonchalantly turned his head to look straight at Gaynor, determinedly meeting her eyes; although her gaze was once again fixed on his face, the guards didn't give him a second glance, too interested in getting Gaynor out of the van and getting an eyeful of her legs. _If only they knew what was under that skirt._

Gaynor's eyes went straight to his, and she winked, mouthing to him as she was taken into the prison.

"Good afternoon, DCI Hunt."

And then she was gone. Gone.

Gene let out what felt like the biggest breath he'd ever held, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers. _Christ on a bloody bike…_

_She protected me. She bloody protected me._ He was in no doubt as to whether she knew about his current circumstances. Most of London would probably be aware of them by now.

Gene let out a shaky breath, letting his gaze come to rest at an empty crisp bag blowing against his leg. _Memo: send 'er somethin' in prison when I'm out o' the deep shit I'm currently wadin' through. Chocolates, flowers, a strap-on dildo for when she 'as 'ers cut off._

A car horn beeped from the road, and he leapt up, sprinting towards Alex in the waiting green Renault; jumping into the passenger seat, he pulled her towards him to kiss the life out of her as soon as he was cocooned by warmth and leather and _safety_, purposely forgetting that they were meant to have a working relationship in favour of sticking his tongue down her throat.

The both of them were panting by the time they pulled apart, staring at each other, eyes bright and drugged; it took Alex a second to remember to take the handbrake off the car so they could get going, her eyes reluctantly ripping away from his to focuss back on the road again.

"Mm… so you're glad to see me, Gene?"

"Yeah, pretty bloody pleased."

"I thought so."

Gene chuckled briefly, sitting back in his seat and grabbing her hand as she shifted the car into gear. Alex caressed the back of his palm, recognising the desire for comfort, for stability; no doubt the poor man had been through enough today, now he needed her to be his rock, his bodyguard. Just as he was hers.

"Destination?"

"My house, get you cleaned up and into some better-fitting clothes, and then- then Fenchurch East. Mac's office."

"Risky."

"I know. But that's just our lives. If it's not a criminal, it's a bent copper…"

And this time Gene just managed a real laugh, reluctantly letting go of her hand as the green Renault clattered towards Fenchurch, and towards Mac.

_Back into the snake pit. Bring it on, Mac, you bent bastard._

* * *

><p>Mac's office was cool, dark. Foreboding.<p>

Alex went straight for the waste paper basket, unfolding bits of paper and scrabbling around, skimming the words on the paper by the light of Gene's torch; Gene, by instinct, headed for the filing cabinet, reaching over and plucking a hairslide out of Alex's hair to pick the lock and beginning to rifle through papers and check folder names. His heart was hammering in his sore chest, his mouth as dry as a camel's ball-sack, but the adrenalin coursing through him was strangely exhilarating, almost thrilling- they could be caught any second, and the mere thought made him break out in goosebumps and catch his breath at the same time.

Just for a moment, he was a child again, hiding from his father under the stairs, peering out through the gaps in the cupboard door as Stephen Hunt swayed drunkenly through into the living room, a monster Gene had escaped. Just as that had taken his father down a peg or two, this was taking them a step closer to crushing Mac's corrupt empire, and Gene couldn't deny the fearful excitement slinking down his spine at the slightest noise; he was ready to take Mac on, whether directly or indirectly, and the thought was heady, powerful.

Crouched beside him, Alex hissed with disgust as she found a crude doodle of herself, tied to a wall as Mac shagged her, Gene on his knees beside them, forced to watch; Gene caught a glimpse of it before she ripped it to shreds, cold fury roiling in his stomach. For that alone, Mac would pay. Even the thought- the _concept_- of him doing that to his precious, precious Bolly made Gene's hackles spring up. Alex's hands shook with anger as she delved deeper into the bin, her face flushed; Gene reached down to squeeze her hand briefly, feeling her clammy palms on his and rubbing her knuckles tenderly before letting her go, not missing the tender smile as it flickered across her face.

This was how it was meant to be. The Gene Genie and Bolly-Kecks against the world. It felt _right_.

And then footsteps sounded outside the office, and Gene and Alex froze, staring at the door in silent terror as the lock clicked and Mac and PC Crawford's voices came from outside.

"Just disappeared, Mac. As though Santa Claus swooped in and took him away on his sleigh."

"I'll just check my office. Make sure no little helpers are hidden in there…"

The door opened.

Gene's heart nearly stopped.

"Ah. But they are. Good evening, Gene."

And then he was inside, trapping them in the airless room, and the game was over.

Stephen Hunt had found his son, and the belt was about to fly through the air, rip a chunk from the little boy's skin as he howled his pain.

If Mac was surprised to see Gene's hands in his filing cabinet and Alex sorting through his litter, he didn't show it; he crossed smoothly to his desk, pouring himself a single malt, ensuring the door was locked and shut behind him. Gene made to start forwards and caught a flash of metal in Mac's hand, hurriedly backtracking. _Shit! 'E's got a gun. _He pressed his back against the filing cabinet, forcing himself to stay silent.

Mac lifted the tumbler of whisky, eyes gleaming as he looked straight at Gene. Gene stared back impassively.

"To good intentions."

A cruel smile played about his lips as he lifted the scotch to them, downing half the tumbler in one. Gene ground his teeth. _To smart wankers like you. May they rot in 'ell, each an' every one._

Mac's eyes met his, gleaming with triumph. Gene steeled himself to keep eye contact, certain that his eyes would burst into flames at any moment with the heat of the glare they were giving Mac.

"Exactly what were you hoping to find in my office, Gene? A confession? Proof?"

"You said it yerself, Mac," Gene said quietly, reaching out to clasp Alex's hand as she struggled to rise to her feet. "Best place ter 'ide evidence is in a police station."

Mac drained the rest of the whisky, caressing the glass with his thumb before banging the tumbler down onto his desk suddenly. Alex jumped.

"How right you are, Gene. And that's why I keep it here. In fact, if you want to look, it's all in my desk. Everything you could need."

Gene narrowed his eyes, still clinging to Alex's hand. _Why is 'e tellin' us this? Unless 'e's confident we won't get the chance ter tell anyone else…_

"You showed promise, you know, Gene," Mac continued smoothly, standing up straight and taking a step towards him and Alex, the torchlight casting his eyes into shadow. Alex huddled into Gene's side, welcoming the arm he slid round her waist, praying that it was herself and not Gene she could feel trembling.

"Oh, you did. Clever man, strong, instills so much loyalty in his team… you should never judge a man by his stereotype. The brass were convinced you'd be a lumbering Northern flatfoot, but you've proven yourself otherwise… very impressive. I would have loved to have welcomed you as a brother, but your morals were too strong. Such a shame, when you think about it- and I can't even transfer you out of the way like Garrett, because you'd only come back to haunt me…"

He slid the gun out from its holster, cocking it as he spoke. Alex suppressed a whimper, grabbing at Gene's shirt, every nerve crackling and trembling as Gene gently caressed her hip with his thumb.

"Shh," he murmured, squeezing her round the waist. "Shh. Don't worry. Trust the Gene Genie."

"Indeed. I remember you saying that to little Alex Price. What'll she do without her Gene Genie, eh, DCI Hunt?"

"Luckily fer us, she won't 'ave ter find out."

And before anyone could so much as blink Gene had crossed the room and was tussling with Mac for the gun, scratching at Mac's hands as Mac roared furiously and scrabbled for dominance, the both of them kicking and punching and gasping and yelping as Alex made a wild bid for the gun and missed by a country mile, Gene lashing out at Mac's midriff and getting a punch in the chin for efforts as Alex scratched at Mac with her sharp fingernails and was rewarded with a pained cry and a gush of hot blood from his cheek-

BANG.

"GENE!"

* * *

><p>AN: Ooh dear… the situations this lot get themselves into! Hope you enjoyed- please remember to review. Jazzola :D


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